


Stranger Things Have Happened

by Astyanassa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Humor, Light-Hearted, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astyanassa/pseuds/Astyanassa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Computer techs can be surprisingly 'Dirrty'…<br/>An AU of the AU in my favorite SPN episode, ‘It’s a Terrible Life’, where Sam never starts remembering things and Dean accepts Mr. Adler’s offer of a bonus to stay with the company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger Things Have Happened

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this _years_ ago for a songfic comment fest and didn’t get it completed at the time, but lately all my unfinished stories have been mocking me, so I thought I’d finish the ones that could be finished and delete the rest. This one got finished. :)
> 
> The prompt was: Christina Aguilera’s ‘Dirrty’. If I remember correctly, it was any fandom, any pairing, so I went with SPN – Dean(Smith)/Sam(Wesson).
> 
> Also, for those who've wondered about the brief mention of Dean's prior relationship with a man named Victor (Vic) - yep, Vic is FBI agent Victor Henriksen.

Dean has about two seconds to think, ‘Ah, home, finally’ before he hears it. There’s an unholy _wailing_ sound coming from his bedroom and in Dean’s mind, that can only mean one thing – another ghost.

He’s been worried about just this sort of thing happening, waiting for the other paranormal shoe to drop, so to speak. After all, they’d ganked a ghost; surely word got out about things like that within the ghostly…community? Sam always laughs at him and assures him that ghosts (probably) aren’t organized enough to form that sort of network, but Dean’s not convinced. And now, it looks like he was right after all and he just hopes to God that Sam lives long enough for Dean to say, ‘I told you so.’

Dropping his briefcase and carry-on bag on the rug, he sprints over to the fireplace, grabs the poker iron, vaults over the back of the sofa, and runs full tilt towards the bedroom. His heart’s pounding so hard within his chest that he feels like it might crash through his ribs, and he wishes he had time to prepare himself for what he might see. Sam’s only been living with him a few weeks now, but Dean’s already grown so ridiculously attached to the guy that if he runs through that door and sees that Sam’s already a goner, he’s really pretty sure that he won’t be able to hold it together.

And then, just as he’s skidding down the hardwood hallway and through the open bedroom door, he hears something truly _weird_. It sounded like the ghost just howled something about…no, that can’t be right, Dean thinks. Something about sweating until its…its _clothes_ come off? (Does a ghost’s clothing even come off?)

Some of Dean’s initial panic ebbs away to be replaced by utter confusion and he still doesn’t _get_ it until he looks through the open bathroom door and sees Sam in the shower, gyrating under the spray as the ‘ghost’ wails something about ‘causing a commotion’, and holy _wow_ , that’s a whole lot of naked computer tech, right there. Naked, wet, _soapy_ computer tech. The fireplace poker falls to the carpet with a dull thud.

Through the clear glass of the shower doors, Dean can see the powerful muscles of Sam’s back and ass rippling as he bumps and grinds his way through, ‘There's no stopping, we keep it popping,’ and Dean has to admit – the boy _definitely_ moves better than he sings.

Dean stands and stares, head cocked to one side, for a long while, watching a large cluster of suds creep down Sam’s back and slide between the sculpted cheeks of Sam’s still-pumping ass and that’s just… _fuck_. It’s enough to get a rise – a very literal one - out of Dean, that’s for sure. He reaches down to adjust himself and even the feel of his own hand gripping his dick through the wool of his trousers is enough to make him twitch in anticipation.

Sam’s hips have started doing this hot little swaying, swiveling thing and Dean’s so entranced that he doesn’t really notice that the hip swivel was incorporated into a full-body turn until Sam’s all the way around and facing Dean. Dean’s face goes immediately hot and he thinks, ‘I am _so_ busted’, but then he notices that Sam’s eyes are closed, his head thrown back to let the shower spray rinse the soap from his face, and Dean sees that as his chance to escape without being caught spying, though he does allow himself a quick look down first. The sight of Sam’s semi-tumescent cock, hanging down dark and heavy and wet, and swaying with the rhythm of Sam’s dancing, is almost enough to make Dean just strip off and jump in with Sam, but then Sam reaches out blindly, grabs a bottle of shampoo and brings it to his mouth like a microphone, singing into it, ‘Dancin’ gettin’ just a little…naughty,’ and his hips jerk forward forcefully in time with each syllable of the word ‘naughty’, causing his dick to flop wildly up and down.

Dean has to clap a hand over his mouth to stop the bark of laughter that wants to escape, because even with the distraction of six foot four inches of dripping wet, killer body and an enormous, downright delicious-looking dick, that shit’s _funny_. He backs away and walks over to his closet, still holding his hand against his mouth to keep the laughter in as he toes off his shoes. By the time he’s done, he’s got himself under control enough to take his hand away so that he can remove his suit jacket and put it on a hanger. Even when Sam sings about his tight hip huggers (low for sho), Dean only lets out a soft chuckle.

As he flops down onto the bed and loosens his tie, his still-throbbing dick makes him wonder if maybe he should have just gone for it, though. It’s not like they haven’t seen each other naked. They have. And it’s not like they’re a couple of blushing virgins who’ve never had sex. They’re not. And it’s not even like they’ve never had sex _together_. They have. Lots of sex. Lots and lots of awesomely hot, truly phenomenal sex. And yet, awesomely hot, truly phenomenal sex aside, they’re still strangely formal with each other, or more accurately, Dean thinks, _he’s_ strangely formal and reserved with Sam.

Now that he thinks about it, Sam has shown every sign of wanting more; more closeness and sharing and togetherness, and yet somehow, even though Dean has managed to put his lips on every square inch of Sam’s body, his fingers and tongue in very personal places, and his dick in those same places, he still hasn’t been truly _intimate_ with the guy; intimate in that way two people are when they’ve seen each other at their worst and at their best; when they’ve seen each other be sick and when they’ve seen each other be silly, and Dean knows it’s his fault; he’s been holding back with Sam. The last time Dean opened himself up like that to someone, it had eventually ended badly, but still…he’d had three great years with Victor before things went sour and maybe it was time to try again. Sam certainly didn’t seem to be the driven workaholic Vic had been and that was definitely a good start.

Just as he’s convinced himself to get up and surprise Sam in the shower, the water stops running. Figures, Dean thinks. Still, that means Sam will be coming out soon, all fresh and damp from his shower, and the thought makes Dean feel happy and warm inside. And then, the sight of the long, tall, gorgeous computer geek coming into the bedroom, still dripping a little and wearing nothing more than a skimpy little towel around his hips, makes very specific parts of Dean feel even happier and a hell of a lot warmer. Hot, even. And hard. 

Sam’s got a towel over his head, rubbing his hair dry, and Dean sits up a little, leaning back on his elbows and smirking as he waits for Sam to realize he’s not alone. When Sam finally lowers the towel and sees him, Dean’s mildly disappointed that Sam barely flinches (for a computer geek, that boy has nerves of _steel_ ), but the look of unadulterated happiness on Sam’s face goes a long way towards making up for the fact that Dean did not, in fact, even the score by scaring the bejeezus out of Sam the way Sam’s singing had scared the bejeezus out of Dean.

“Hey!” Sam crosses the room quickly and bends over to kiss Dean. “I thought you weren’t going to be back until tomorrow.”

Dean sits up, sliding one hand up Sam’s rock-solid thigh. He leans in and presses his lips against Sam’s belly and smiles when Sam gives a full-body shudder. “Mmm,” he hums, kissing the damp skin again. “I was able to squeeze in on an earlier flight by sitting in coach.” Smiling up at Sam, Dean can see the exact moment that it hits Sam; can see that millisecond-long flash of panic, followed by nervous wariness.

“Um, how long have you been home?”

It’s hard not to laugh and Dean has to bite the inside of his cheek for a moment, but then manages to say, nonchalantly, “Hmm? I _just_ got in; haven’t even unpacked my bag yet,” and Dean doesn’t miss the look of relief that passes over Sam’s face.

“So, how was New Orleans?” Sam asks as he grabs a t-shirt and a pair of boxers from the dresser.

“Hot,” Dean answers. He watches as Sam, his back to Dean, drops his towel and steps into the boxers, watches as the muscles shift and ripple with his movements. Sam turns to face Dean as he’s pulling the t-shirt on and it strikes Dean hard and fast as he watches Sam’s head emerge from the fabric with a look of genuine interest and affection on his face – he needs this guy; really _needs_ to have him, wholly and completely and long-term, in his life. It’s more than just his bang-able body, more than just his handsome face. It’s the way he feels comfortable and familiar, it’s the way he _cares_ about Dean in a way no one else ever has, really. Maybe it _is_ time to try again with someone; time to take things to that next, more intimate, level in the only way he knows how.

“Yeah, unbelievably, swelteringly _hot_ ,” Dean says. He can’t help the little twitch at the corner of his mouth when he adds, “We had an informal meeting at a little outdoor café yesterday and man, did I sweat. My shirt was soaked by the time we were done.” He lets the twitch become a broad smile when he goes in for the kill, “I thought I was gonna sweat until… until my clothes came off,” he finishes and then sits back and waits for Sam to figure it out.

It doesn’t take long. Sam is one of the smartest, quickest guys he’s ever known, Dean thinks, as he watches Sam’s face instantly turn bright red.

“You… ass!” Sam is yelling in that deep, booming voice that some people might find a little scary but that Dean thinks is hilarious and sort of cute. “You were listening… you heard… the whole time?”

“Not the _whole_ time.” Dean is laughing openly now and he stands and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Things started getting a little _naughty_ ,” he says while doing a little hip thrust, “so I, you know, walked away from that.” Sam looks like he might explode from either embarrassment or extreme pissed-off-ness at any moment so Dean walks over and presses his lips, warm and soft against Sam’s. “Relax, it was cute. Come on, I’ll bet there’s something I do that…”

“You fart,” Sam interrupts. “Yep, every night as you’re drifting off to sleep, you let one rip.”

“What?” Dean laughs a little, nervously. “I do not.”

“You do. It’s usually loud enough to wake you up a little. Sometimes you pick up your head and go, ‘Huh? What?’ and I pretend like I didn’t hear anything.”

Dean’s face is red, but in for a penny…

“Yeah, well, you make goofy faces at yourself in the bathroom mirror.”

“What?”

“In the morning, after you’re done brushing and flossing, you always look in the mirror to, like, fluff up your hair…”

“I don’t fluff my….”

“…and you do this,” Dean says, and then sucks in his cheeks and purses his lips and raises one eyebrow while tilting his head a little jauntily.

Sam laughs and shakes his head. “You’re insane. I’ve never…”

“You _do_. I just pretend like I don’t notice. I just keep putting on my moisturizer, but …”

Sam throws his arm up and points at Dean. “You _moisturize_ ,” he yells and a triumphant grin splits his face. He seems to think that using moisturizer is some sort of trump card in this pissing battle of embarrassing moments.

“Yeah, I moisturize,” Dean answers smugly. “And when we’re seventy-five years old and you _look_ seventy-five and I look, like, _forty-five_ , we’ll see who’s laughing won’t we?”

Sam opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but then his face goes slack and soft. “Wait,” he says. “Are you saying we’ll still be together when we’re seventy-five?”

He’s smiling softly and Dean is struck again by how much this face, this _man_ , has come to mean to him. He gets a flash, a quick mental vision, of the two of them together, side by side, for the next forty years and it makes him smile. 

“Why not?” Dean kisses Sam again, slowly and sweetly and it feels right, it feels like _home_. “Stranger things have happened.”


End file.
